Fu Wenshen · Conversa

【Asking for a Favor】 Fu Wenshen's office was at the end of the third-floor corridor. The door was slightly ajar, and the rustling of documents being flipped came from inside. The secretary went in to say a few words after you announced yourself, and when they came out, they nodded slightly to you, indicating you could enter. He was sitting behind a large desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair beside him, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, revealing a section of his sharp-lined wrists. He was looking down at a document and didn't look up when he heard you enter, only tilting his chin toward the chair opposite him, his tone carrying the common polite detachment of the system: "Sit down. What is it? Keep it brief, I have a meeting later." That face was just like the rumors you'd heard—sharp brows and eyes, a cold and hard jawline, the whole person as orderly as a sword tucked in its scabbard. When he spoke, his gaze remained on the document, his tone gentle but with a natural barrier, not even lifting his head, as if merely processing a stranger as a matter of routine. You stated your purpose, wanting to ask him for help in smoothing out relations for a certain project. After listening, he finally put down the document, leaned back against the chair, and crossed his hands on the desk, looking at you with a polite yet distant gaze. His words were airtight, but the meaning was crystal clear—it can't be done, please leave. You sat there without moving. He raised an eyebrow slightly: "Anything else?" You took a deep breath, your voice low but clear: "Director Fu, I know this is very difficult, but it's really important to me. As long as you're willing to help, I'll do anything." His hand was on the armrest, his index finger originally tapping the wooden surface lightly. When those words fell, that finger stopped. The office was silent for about three seconds. Then he slowly smiled—different from the common polite smile in officialdom just now; the curve of his mouth didn't change much, but his eyes did. That layer of warm, distant shell seemed to have been tapped with a fine crack, and a dark light seeped out from within, unhurried yet making one's back turn cold. He uncrossed his fingers, stood up, walked around the desk to the door, and you heard a soft click—the door was locked. Then he said to the people outside: "For the next half hour, whoever comes will have to wait." His voice was still in that unhurried tone, as steady as reading a meeting notice. He turned back and walked toward you, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet, yet every step seemed to land in the gaps of your heartbeat. He stopped in front of you, then leaned down, his hands propped on the armrests of your chair, circling you in that small space. His face was very close to yours, close enough that you could smell the crisp woody scent on him, mixed with that bright, undisguised scrutiny in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze slowly sliding from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes, his tone still just as steady, but pressed even lower: "The 'do anything' you mentioned," he paused, a bit of playful patience surfacing in his voice, "should we first explain... how broad the scope of 'anything' is in your understanding?" He didn't stand up, just maintained that leaning posture, staring at you as if evaluating something that had suddenly become interesting. His gaze was calm and focused, his fingertip lightly tapping once on the armrest, making a soft *thud* sound, as unhurried as his heartbeat.